


In Another Time

by TheRosenBones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age Redemption, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "I swear I didn't mean to get god-powers", #InquisitorRises, Anders Being an Asshole, Angry Lavellan, BAMF Merrill (Dragon Age), Fenris is Bad at Feelings, HAHHAHAHA, Original Character(s), Past Female Lavellan/Solas, Solas is an Egg, These suggested tags for the characters are so on point, Time Travel "try-to-fix-it", Time Travel Fix-It, Varric Tethras Is So Done, What if Lavellan gets resurrected instead of Flemeth?, Young Inquisitor (Dragon Age), e g g, oopsie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-11-01 16:50:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17871029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRosenBones/pseuds/TheRosenBones
Summary: There was no time left. The anchor was killing her. She knew who he was, what he had done, and what he was planning to do. With each pulse of her hand, she felt herself slipping away. She wouldn't give Solas the satisfaction of taking the mark back, no. She would die with it. Her choice, free from would-be gods.So when she chose to end it all, using the mark itself to do it, you can imagine her shock upon waking perfectly intact. In another world, maybe. But this was giving her a case of serious deja-vu.In which the Inquisitor gets resurrected instead of Flemeth on Sundermount, and sees Hawke's bullshit firsthand._____Ever wonder what would happen if the Hero of Ferelden didn't kill Flemeth? She gave the resurrection stone to Hawke regardless of the choices made in Origins. Combine that with taking the Well of Sorrows, the weird time magic experienced in the mage-alliance quest... and this happened.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Merrill's in for a shock, that's for sure.
> 
> A teaser/preview chapter while I play more of DA:II for dialogue and pacing.
> 
> EDIT: decided to revamp after a few days of sitting on the short chapter. The tone was scattered, and not really the pacing I wanted to give. I have a sort-of beta reader now! (More like a friend I totally press-ganged into reading it but eh!-details.)

" _Var lath vir suledin!"_ She shouted some of the old language at him, thinking that speaking in his mother tongue would make more of an impact. Knock some sense into him.

"I wish it could, vhenan" he sighed his reply.   
  
Screaming, she ripped away from him. She hated his lies, even though he insisted they were only by omission. Even Solas himself knew that his excuses were utter shit; she could see his guilty wince clear as day. For all his faults, she thought him to simply be another elf like her. Hell, he even set his coat on fire once. Was that all a ploy too? Did he pretend to be some wide-eyed, altruistic apostate who loves old stories?--Pretend to love her, even though he kept insisting that was real. Perhaps that's why she was so furious with him. How dare he claim to care for her when they were leagues apart? He was called a God; she was just a curious thing to him. 

And she was so, so was naive. And perhaps, so was he if he truly believed so much in his convictions. His name might as well be a warning. At first, she thought Pride might have been an endearment; a gift from doting parents. But no, now his arrogance would be the death of them all. What Pride had Wrought, indeed. Idly, she wondered just how much of the Chant of Light related to the actual history of their world. 

For all his wisdom and talent for dreams, she had suspected that he was much older than he appeared. At most, a Dreamer from before the fall of the Dales. The way he moved in battle and how he spoke of the Emerald Knights, she had thought that there was more to his humble origins. You'd think someone who had lived that long would be a bit wiser. Self-aware. But no, he was older than her _religion_. Older than the veil itself. 

Old enough to know that destroying the wold a second time wouldn't make it better again.

He walked towards her, a man that looked like he hated himself but made no effort to change for the better. She knew he meant to rip the offending arm from her. Take something else away from her. He had stolen her heart once already, why not resort to brute force? Maybe some part of him regretted his actions but the fact that he still acted on them made him dangerous.

Solas, the man she had loved, was now her enemy. Fen'Harel all along. 

Her eyes wildly scanned their surroundings like a cornered animal. There had to be some way to escape a god. Somehow. 

The frozen forms of the Qunari around them was slightly discouraging, but she had never been one to cower in the face of unfavorable odds.

She screamed once more; a sound so visceral it surprised even her. As it echoed over the ramparts, the mark whined. It was as if it resonated with the sheer force of her rage, sorrow, hope... and dare she admit it, **love** for this stupid,  _stupid_ man. He shouted something at her as his eyes began to glow, but she couldn't hear him. With the last vestiges of herself hanging by a thread, she channeled all of her will into skirting the fade. It wasn't so much of a fade-step so much as it was throwing herself off a cliff. There was no intent of direction in her path, just  _away_ from him. 

Fate had decided that placing her back to the Eluvian was the best route. In a fight against tower-shields and templars, flanking the enemy may have worked. As it stood, however, there was no way in hell that she could stop him from simply escaping through the mirror. 

He sighed, and his shoulders visibly sagged even though he was wearing that ridiculous fur sash. Turning to look at her with that sad, defeated, (infuriating), expression, he spoke with a heavy weight. "I will not stop you if you go, but I cannot simply let you die either. That anchor is my mistake to bear, not yours. I will not have another's blood on my hands, especially not yours, vhenan." 

"Oh sure, you regret my inevitable death _now_ but in two years?" she laughs, a hollow, empty sound. "I'm _still_ not real to you. No one is." Her eyes narrow, and she can feel her face contort into an ugly emotion as she continued. " _Never shall we submit_ my ass. You go on and on about free will and _still,_ still!-you chose for me." Her lips curl into a smirk with too many teeth. Her anger was a sharp thing, manic and wild. "You are blinded by your namesake!" 

His eyes go wide as he guesses her true intention. They are seconds away from it detonating. From earlier that day, she estimates it will take a good portion of the castle with it. But her true goal is the mirror, and whatever hideaway of his that is on the other side. 

"No! Stop-" he screams, but it's too late. She raised her cursed hand and held it to her stolen heart. Her chest felt empty. Her ears were ringing. She never cried in front of anyone. As a First, A Herald, and Inquisitor, she had to be strong for her people. But this?-this was too much. She stood on the precipice of death, driven to the choice by the first person she had ever loved and it hurt.

It all hurt. Every bone in her body hurt. The mark was ripping her to shreds as the light curled higher up her arm, and she could do nothing to stop the broken sobs that escaped her.

She wanted it to end.

Lavellan shoved her hand harder into her chest, she could feel her fingers skim something soft and fluttering. Grasping her own heart with a twist that would make Fenris proud, she couldn't help but let the bubble of something slip from her lips.   
  
" **No.** " Solas fell to his knees, knowing that their death would be imminent. She looked down at him, curious why he stayed with her. He should have run away from her. She was going to kill them both and  _why wasn't he stopping her_. Her friends would be sad, but Sera and Varric would tell stories of how brave she was. 'Backflipped into the void while giving the dark god a rude hand gesture'. Or flowery epitaphs from Josephine. 

But she wasn't brave. Not in the least. The world was too big for her. She was never a leader so much as she was a lost girl, trying so hard to save everyone. For a moment, she regretted everything. If only she could go back and stop this, somehow. _How did it come to this?_

 _"Vhenan,"_ she tried to say, but something in the mark resonated with the word. Something unlocked. She could feel her heart shift like a glyph sliding into place. A barrier broken. And there was green, so much green. A song that the world once sung together. So many voices. She was drowning in the swirling light. Her body dissolved into nothing, falling into the void. There was no more Inquisitor. No more Solas. Just magic, and the impression of being whole with the universe.

But then.

A tug on an imaginary sleeve. A gentle pull. A promise with a weight. _A piece, a tiny piece, but it was all she needed_. 

___________________________

 "Well shit," a laugh. "I know the rumours of the Dalish can be extravagant; frolicking in the woods naked and whatnot, but I didn't know you could just... grow a person from an amulet by reciting some ancient poetry." 


	2. Shit Gets Weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OOPS MY HAND SLIPPED and I ended up rewriting the second half of the chapter. Made it much, much longer than anticipated, but the flow and tone suits the story a lot better.  
> A friend of mine pointed out how no one thought it was weird that our dear Inquisitor knew everyone's names. It was one of those cases where I had too many ideas and witty lines and not enough pacing.  
> So uh. Chapter three is going to be null and void for a bit as I re-write the thing entirely. But hey! Sometimes you need a fresh start. Wink. Wink. Theme of the story. Wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect more edits after I post chapters? I am that type of person that revises everything at least six times before I find something that I don't immediately say "ew" after reading.
> 
> Edit 3/6 HAH. I KNEW IT. PAST ME WAS RIGHT.

Hawke leaned against his staff with an impish grin. He was glad that he went for lighter clothes that morning. It wasn't too warm, but their hike up the roads around Sundermount's harsh sun certainly brought about a bit of a sweat. After this, he was going to be damn sure that Carver would be the one to do the wash. Idly, he wondered how in the hell Aveline wasn't melting in her guardsmen-issued plate. Speaking of: “How long do we have until the patrol comes by?”

"Six hours, give or take. I know you wanted in on the action, but I would rather leave us a large window just in case they’re earlier than expected." Aveline sighed as she tied her autumn-red hair up into a high bun. "Are you sure you would like to join us, Varric?-it's going to be a long wait, and I'm not sure what kind of fallout will come from stopping the ambush unsanctioned. If you have connections to the Carta, this could go poorly."

Varric shrugged as he walked. His heavy crossbow bounced with every step. "Eh, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Honestly, you guys seem interesting. I've heard a lot about you Ferelden guys, but I'd like to see you all in action first-hand." From the corner of his eyes, he met Hawke's look and raised a brow in question. It was subtle, but he knew exactly what the dwarf was implying. Was it alright to talk of their deal? Hawke smiled, and gave a small nod. It wasn't like the expedition was a secret or anything, and Aveline was _obviously_ invested in Hawke's personal affairs. "I'm trying to get them a partnership with my brother's expedition. Knowing a bit how you handle yourselves when push comes to shove means I have more ammunition to argue your case to my brother."

"Eh, better for your reputation than an apostate smuggler who works with the Dalish, Hawke." Aveline smirked. "Maker knows that he needs an honest job. Being an apostate doesn't lend to sterling careers."

"If memory serves me right, you were the one who pulled a sword on that thieving merchant so we could join a smuggler's guild." Hawke huffed, but it was easy to read the smile on his face.

"And look where I am. It's almost as if doing the right thing for once lands you job security." And she was smiling too. The friendship they had forged was an odd one, but strong.

“Ah, yes. Let me just flounce into the barracks with a staff and a resume. ‘Decent apostate, not an abomination, doesn’t follow orders well’; I’m sure they’ll sign me on immediately.” Hawke deadpanned.  

Carver, behind them and red-faced from the hike, was laughing. "Look-- I'm all for making fun of my brother, but I have a serious suggestion."

"Hmm?" Hawke hummed. "What is it?"

"While we are here, could we stop by and do that thing for Flemeth?-I don't fancy seeing an angry dragon after we just managed to find somewhat of a stable life here."

"Wait," Varric nearly tripped. "Did I hear you right? You made a deal with the Witch of the Wilds?-Flemeth’s a myth at best and nightmare at worst. I may be a storyteller at heart but that seems a bit over the top, even for me."

Aveline sighed. "Yes, I swear on my sword it was her. She cleared a path in exchange for porting an amulet here.”

Varric’s worry was evident in his cautious tone. "You're smuggling for her?"

Hawke shrugged. "It's just an amulet. More like a delivery to the Dalish than anything sinister." He paused. "I think."

Varric stared wide eyed at the three of them, a hint of terror in his expression. Aveline spoke quickly, trying to defuse his panic. “Regardless, it would be best if we stay in her good graces. Carver is right; it's best we do this as soon as possible. It's just a simple task anyway. I don't think any harm will come from it."

"Good call, Carver.” Hawke’s smile was full of something akin to paternal pride, but he’d never admit it. “Means we don't have to make this hike again." But for all his jokes, his hand drifted towards the amulet that never left his neck. It was hidden under his shirt, and was much warmer today than just the heat his body gave off. Something told him the time was right for it. "Well Varric, might as well get you caught up to speed if you're going to be part of our merry little crew of friends. Maybe you'll even get to see the dragon lady."

"From the stories I've heard of her, I'm not sure if I should be excited or running for the hills." But despite his fear, the call of a potential adventure lured him in. He practically jogged over to join Aveline and Hawke at the crest of the trail.

"Well, we're already on a hill, so I guess you're joining us then." Carver huffed, as he hurried to catch up.

"Astute observation. I'm proud of you." Hawke deadpanned.

_______________________________________________

"So..." Varric whistled at the sight of the altar on the cliff’s edge. "Just a eulogy? Is it more like a rite of passage, or is this a ceremony of sorts? Or ritual?"

Merrill sighed. So many questions. She rubbed a thumb over the most recent cut. The fight to get to the top of the mountain wasn’t hard, but it certainly gave her pause. The dead were restless here. Gooseflesh covered her arms, and it wasn’t from the chilly mountaintop wind. "A bit of both. Well. All three. Sort of. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure myself. I was told to do it by Keeper Marethari. She's the one that's been in direct contact with Asha'bellanar, I don’t know much more than that. Sorry.”

“Do we have to recite anything for the rite, or is it just you? I don’t know a word of Elvish, and I’m afraid I’d offend your gods enough to summon them directly just by a slight mispronunciation.” Hawke asked, eying the funeral cairns around them.

Merrill snorted. “No, it will be just me. It’s not like they could come. Fen’Harel tricked them into banishment.” She giggled at the thought. “It would be funny, though. Countless generations trying to find traces of our pantheon and you, a _shem_ \- sorry, _human_ , just waltzing in and calling them forth?” Another giggle, smothered by her hand as she tried to sober herself. “I’m sure it couldn’t be that bad if you tried. If you wanted to, you could give thanks to Flemeth for helping you? It’s not traditional; we Dalish hold our language and culture very close to our hearts. A humangiving thanks in our own tongue is certainly out of the norm, but you’re speaking from a place of kindness and peace. Actually, ‘kindness and peace’ is more or less how we welcome people in greeting. Sorry, am I rambling?-It's just. I've haven't had much contact with others outside of the clan.” 

Aveline stepped forward with a sombre tone, cutting Merrill off from her spiral. “I would very much like that. Flemeth couldn’t save my late husband, but she did save us. I owe her much.”

Carver huffed like a petulant child. “I don't understand why it's a funeral rite. There's no way Flemeth could have died; we saw what she could do.”

They all turned back to look at him. Understandably, he hung back from the alter. The corpses from the re-killed shambling undead strung about the area gave off quite a stench.

“What do you mean?” Merrill asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“You’re treating this ritual as if it’s a last goodbye for Flemeth. It feels wrong to assume that the eulogy is for her.” Carver's bravado shrunk at Merrill's anxiety. Softer, he continued. "I mean, I don't know anything about Dalish culture or Flemeth herself but it just seems odd, you know?"

“She did ask for us to do this. Maybe it’s a rite of passage for someone close to her; a friend or a relative, perhaps." Hawke reasoned. "Bu this is a promise to her that we have to keep. We don’t want to be in debt to her. Like you said, we’ve seen her fight.” He gave a wink, and beconned his brother closer to the altar. “So let’s honor her by keeping our word and thank her for the help.”

“That’s good.” Merrill smiled. “I’m glad you are all so kind. I was worried when Marethari told me that I’d be going with humans.”

Varric coughed.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you’d be coming too, but um. You’re welcome to this as well.” she frowned awkwardly.

“I’m just teasing you, little daisy, don’t you worry.” Varric laughed, “I’m just here to support my new friends. This is important to them, and they offered me to tag along. You guys do your thing, and I’ll shoot the undead if they decide to bother us again.”

“Thank you,” Merrill gave an answering smile before turning to the group of Fereldens. “The translation is _ma serannas_. Say it at the end of my part, if you wish.”

“Hey, Merrill?” Hawke sighed, as he reached under his shirt for the amulet.

“Yes?”

“Thank you, too. For this.”

“You’re very welcome. But this is my task as much as it is yours.” She smiled, and gestured to the urn. It lit with little magical effort, casting a white-green glow upon the stone. “When you’re ready, when can begin. Put the amulet in the flames. They will not hurt you; it’s simply veilfire.”

Hawke hesitated for a moment, “....right.” He inhaled sharply through his nose and stepped forward. After placing it in the flames, he stepped back. She was right; they were cool to the touch.

Merrill squared her shoulders and breathed deeply. She spoke with a calm, even voice. “Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas souver’inan isala hamin vehnan him dor’felas. In uthenera na revas.”

“Ma serannas,” the four behind her echoed. It was a quiet affair. For a moment, nothing happened.

And then. Something unexpected.

Beams of golden-green light burst forth from the veilfire with swirling vibrancy. On the edge of their vision, dragon wings spread as if in flight. They folded down, diving deep. Lightning crashed onto the stone, splitting the altar in two. The group was thrown back by the primal forces gathering. Fire, real fire, burst from the stone. It was an impossible sight.

Hawke tried to blink the spots out of his vision as he started to rise. A Dalish vambrace to his right. Merrill? He gingerly reached out to it, clasping the hand firmly. Please, don’t let her be dead. Squinting, it seemed like she was in one piece. Behind him, he saw a blurry Varric helping Carver and Aveline stand. The sudden absence of sound was deafening. Hawke forced a yawn to pop his ears and shook his head. Slowly, the world came back to him.

“Everyone alright?” he called out, hoping that his friends could still hear.

Merrill groaned, sitting up. She was shaking like a leaf, but alert. Her eyes caught the low light through the dust and debris, glowing as danced across the gravesite. Adrenaline and fear made her look feverish and wild, but she didn’t falter.  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Merrill lamented to herself a little brokenly, stumbling as she stood.

Aveline shouted back, “We’re alright! Just a little shaken, I think.”

Hawke hissed as he quickly stood up. The world spun a bit and he would be in a world of hurt tomorrow, but he was still in fighting shape. Swearing under his breath, he jogged over to Carver and began to check for injuries. Their mother would have his head if something happened to his little brother. Upon a brief inspection, Carver seemed alright, just covered in a layer of graveyard dirt. “What was supposed to happen then, Merrill?” Hawke shouted.

But the elf didn’t answer him.

“Merrill?”

“... _ir abelas_ …” she cried out in anguish. “I’ve doomed us all.”

Drawing his staff, Hawke immediately got to his feet and placed himself in front of the group.

Aveline lept to attention, readying her shield. “ _Merrill_ -” she hissed. “What happened?”

“Th-there’s,” she pointed to the altar, hands shaking. “There’s been a mistake. I don’t _know_ what happened, but!-”

Varric loaded a bolt in his crossbow with a growl. “It’s not your fault. Stop. What’s got you upset?-we’re all fine. Like you said, you weren’t certain what this was supposed to do. Maybe Flemeth wanted you to destroy it in the rite?”

“No.” Merrill sobbed, falling to her knees. “Just. There's a  _girl._ I need help. Hawke?” Her voice was weak and shaking as she started throwing bits of rubble out of the altar.

“A girl?" Hawke mumbled, confused. "Help with what?” He ran over to her. “Merrill, please. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I summoned something!-someone. Look there.” Her face was unreadable, oddly blank from shock. “There’s a hand, and it’s not rotting. So it's not undead. We have to get them out.”

Carver swore, “We were played right into Flemeth’s game after all.” He looked about the area for any signs of more undead. “Do you think this is punishment for waiting too long to complete her request?”

The knuckle joints of Aveline’s gauntlet made a sound as she clenched her late husband’s shield tighter to herself. “We shouldn’t have trusted her; magic always has a price.”

Merrill’s eyes turned steely, glaring at Aveline for a beat. "You're quick to betray your savior at the first sign of trouble?" The words moved her into action; with a growled huff, she all but threw herself onto the altar. Stone after stone, she tried to single-handedly clear the rubble out of the way.

Hawke inhaled sharply through their nose. “I know this is frightening, Aveline, but not all magic is evil. Maybe we are supposed to do this for some grander purpose?” His lips drew into a tight line as he winced, walking at a much more sedate pace to where Merrill reverently worked. “The stories of the Witch of the Wild are never straightforward, but she isn’t outright evil.” He kneeled next to Merrill and began brushing the dirt away, matching her pace. “I can’t just stand there and debate probabilities if there is someone who truly needs our help... Regardless if I accidentally summoned an angry god from trying to speak Elvish.”

A thud next to him as someone joined in the effort to free the stranger. The frown lines on Varric’s face were deep with worry. “Let’s hope they remember that we are trying to save them when they wake up and murder people, yeah?”

Aveline took a hesitant step forward, caught by her conflicting views of the world before making her choice. She placed her hands on a larger stone, motioning for Hawke to aid her.

Carver wasn’t long behind her, jumping into the effort. Between the three of them, they managed to lift and roll it away from the lightning struck ground.

What they saw should have been impossible. A girl lay buried in what was left of the flaming altar. Her skin was pristine. By all accounts she should have been a shambling corpse just like the ones they dispatched on the way up the mountain. The more they uncovered, the more mysterious of a situation it became. Long, flowing hair shone from under the dirt like spun gold. Her skin was an odd shade of pale, more akin to marble than real flesh. With frantic hands, they worked as quickly as they could to free her.

”Is she breathing?” Merrill fretted, placing a hand on the girl’s throat. “I can’t feel a pulse.”

“Here,” Carver snatched _the_ amulet from the dirt and held it to her lips. “Yes!” he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “She’s alive!-there’s fog on the metal. She’s not an abomination, is she?-or another walking corpse?” Carver fretted, but made no move to shy away from the girl. “Earlier,” he looked at Merril, something alight with wonder in his eyes. “-You mentioned that Elves could enter the dreaming and become immortal. Do you think we found one…?”

Merrill laughed, airy and bright. The high from adrenaline made her slightly punch-drunk and unable to speak.

“Even if she could live forever, she still needs a place to _live_.” Aveline reasoned quietly. She was still sore from Hawke's reprimand, but it was clear she was trying to make amends. “Clothes. Maybe food and water.”

At the mention of clothing, Merrill’s hand traced over the stitching on the girl’s shoulder. It was an odd garb; the scraps of armor and robes the Dalish found in scattered ruins didn’t look anything like this. She was expecting extravagant greens and golds, not severe collars and deep reds. One of the girl's arms was clad in armor, almost a full plate. It being only one side, she surmised that it was her dominant hand. Merrill absorbed each little detail, completely entranced. The cloth almost felt alive under her curious fingers. 

“I don’t want to get Merrill in trouble, she didn’t do anything wrong,” Varric sighed, sitting back on his ankles. “But maybe leaving her with the Dalish is the best option. She may not be able to speak Common as we do.”

Merrill’s mood had calmed considerably not that the strange elf was freed. Or perhaps she was distracted by puzzle that was the girl herself. “I’m,” she began, wiping her face from the soot and tears. “I’m actually leaving the clan. She could stay with me in the alienage.”

“Well, that’s a plan at least.” Hawke sighed, sitting more comfortably now that the mania of the moment had passed. “I’m still curious as to what the hell happened. Or,” he mused. “-What was supposed to happen in the first place. It’s strange.”

“It was simple instructions,” Merrill sighed. “Go here, say this. If it was dangerous, Keeper Marethari would have warned me.” She trailed off with a heavier sigh that made her shoulders sink. “We aren’t on good terms and rarely see eye to eye, but she wouldn’t have deliberately threw me into this mess. I just fear Flemeth’s wrath if it turns out I’m the one to blame for why this went wrong.”

Carver frowned at Merrill’s distress. “We could just… leave with her. If we don’t make a scene of it, they might think that this was all according to plan.”

Aveline gave a wry snort. “Again with the smuggling?”

Varric laughed. “It may be one of the oldest trick in the books, but sadly, it works. Act natural and no one will suspect anything.”

“If she is an abomination, could you tell with your blood magic, Merrill?” Hawke winced. “I know the smuggling thing was a joke, but it could work. I just want to know if she is a danger to us or not. Last thing we want is to bring a walking bomb into the Dalish camp.”

“Or Kirkwall. Meredith would be more than happy to have a new excuse to eradicate magic.” Varric agreed.

“Oh,” Merrill simpered. “I could tell she wasn’t an abomination immediately even without the blood magic.”

Carver’s frown deepened. “How can you be certain?”

“Everyone has a bit of an aura about them when they cast magic. For mages, feeling another person’s magic comes with familiarity; it’s like knowing who is approaching by the sound of their footsteps. The clan's warriors could always tell my barrier from the Keeper's.” she laughed.

“How does that mean she’s not an abomination?” Aveline questioned, looking at the sleeping girl with equal parts curiosity and fear.

“That’s just the thing,” Merrill began excitedly. “Mages can’t feel other mages unless they’re casting in close proximity or the target of a spell. Auras are a subtle weaving of will, manipulating the fade to one’s intent. Everyone has their own style and signature. Only the extremely powerful beings of the fade can be felt without any magic being cast.”

“So… is the girl an abomination?” Carver tried to keep her on track of the conversation.

“ _No_ ,” Merrill emphatically declared. “But powerful enough that I can feel her. She wears the magic about her as easily as you or I wear clothes.”

Aveline shifted away from the strange girl, giving Hawke a significant look. It was a question: did he feel it?

Frowning, he centered himself. Pushing away the stress and fear, he simply observed the girl. He did feel… something, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“If she’s so powerful, isn’t that still dangerous?” Aveline reasoned.

“No, it’s because she’s so powerful that I doubt she could _ever_ be possessed. Magic comes from will.” she smiled at Carver. “Earlier you asked if she was an ancient elf, and I think her aura is proof of it.”

“An ancient being, huh?” Varric rubbed his brow as if fighting off a headache. “This shit keeps getting weirder. But, I suppose that makes you her default friend, Merrill. No one else can really speak Elvish. You two can make daisy chains and frolic together.”

Merrill snorted. “We don’t actually frolic, you know.” Her smile was fox-like. “Besides, she doesn’t even have her Vallaslin; she’s too young for dancing naked in the woods.”

Carver nearly choked on air. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Varric grinned as he patted the young man’s back.

Aveline, brushed the dirt from her pants in vain. “Is it decided then?” she said as she stretched a knot out of her shoulder. “We still have plenty of time, but we do need to go to the ambush site. I’m not sure if we’ll get another opportunity.”

“You're... ambushing someone?” Merrill asked cautiously, standing as well.

Hawke sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, trying to prevent one. Just doing some scouting for the city guard. There’s been suspicious activity and Aveline asked us to accompany her.”

“Ah,” Merrill hummed, fidgeting her hands. “I suppose I’ll meet you in Kirkwall then?”

“Woah, woah,” Varric interjected. “You’re not going to drag the girl all the way into the alienage by yourself?”

Merrill huffed. “Well, when you put it that way,”

The dwarf let out a groan as he rose to his feet. All this climbing and action was hell on his knees. “I’ll go with you.” Varric stated. “I’m famous enough to be known, but not famous enough to be bothered. Perfect for escorting you into the city without too many questions.”

Carver shifted his weight from foot to foot. “As powerful as your crossbow is,” he nodded to the dwarf with a bashful grin. “You might need a sword if bandits and rogues come in close.” To Hawke, “If that’s alright with you?”

Hawke shrugged and turned to Aveline. “What’s your opinion? Any evidence we might be in over our heads?”

The guardswoman sighed. “If it's an ambush, we stop it. Otherwise, we stay back and simply observe.”

Hawke hummed. “It’s settled then. Let’s get off this mountain before anything else extraordinary happens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take two! Now with a heavy dose of dramatic irony!


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Flemeth gets a turn for the shock of a lifetime(s).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 3/6, completely re-written as a new opening for a plotline that fits MUCH better into the game's storyline.

The climb down was relatively uneventful. Merrill had been surprised by another group of undead as she picked a stray elfroot, (“In case she’s hurt!-I’d be sore too if I’d been trapped in an altar for a millenia.”), but between Varric’s bolts and Hawke’s fire they were taken care of in short order.

Carver seemed both honored and horrified to be carrying the unconscious elf. He handled her like a parent protecting a child, cradling her small body to his chest protectively at every rustling bush. Seconds later, he’d remember just whom he was holding and his face drained of colour. Part of him was thankful she was passed out and unresponsive; he was certain that he was sweating like a con-man on trial.

As they rounded the final twist of the path down, Hawke came to a full stop. The others fell in line behind him, curious what was going on. The aravals were gathered in close, and items were strung across the camp in wooden crates. Among the carts, the Dalish busied themselves packing away the essentials and readying the jibs. A tailor sewed a colourful, bright red patch onto the faded canvas.

“What’s going on?” Hawke questioned, even though he knew the answer. So much for slipping by.

“I could ask you the same thing,” came a rasping voice from behind a sail. It was predatory and sly, and Hawke knew immediately whom it belonged to. That voice would forever be burned into his memory. A woman emerged from the largest araval, looking for all the world the same as she did a year ago. Her golden eyes blazed in the low light of the cloudy day with vengeance. “Initially, I had feared my amulet made its way into a merchants pocket.” Flemeth mused, flexing a clawed gauntlet as if to inspect its sharpness.

“We did as you asked,” Hawke held his ground, but memory told him that she appreciated his manic, deflecting humor. He quickly added, “You could have warned us that we’d nearly be struck by lightning.”

“Oh?” Flemeth placed a finger to her lips. “That certainly is _unexpected_.” A brow rose in question as she sauntered over to them. “What did you think would happen?-my instructions were quite vague, after all.”

Hawke shrugged as casually as he could muster as she got closer to him. “Given, last time we met you turned into a dragon; I had an open mind with no expectations.”

“True.” she chuckled, but her gaze fell to the woman in Carver’s arms. Her eyes went wide, but her brow quickly furrowed into a deep, quiet rage. “Come,” she beconned him.

Carver looked to each of them before shakily taking a step towards the frightening woman. But before he could make it to her, she closed the distance herself.

Varric didn’t like how much the Witch looked like a hungry animal circling her proverbial prey. He knew he couldn’t voice his objections without endangering them all.

“Well, well, well.” Flemeth drew a metal nail over the girl’s back. It caught in her hair and trailed out behind Carver as the witch paced. “This is interesting.”

Merrill’s lip quivered. She tried to hold onto her courage and be brave, but this was the Asha’bellanar before them. Legends were told of this woman, and this whole mess was all her fault. Her knees slammed into the ground as she all but fell into a deep bow. “I b-beg your forgiveness,” she began, but Flemeth cut her off with a wave of her hand. The witch wasn’t even looking at her.

Keeper Marethari looked like she was about to smite poor Merrill where she knelt. “You foolish child, playing with magic you don’t understand! First the blighted Eluvian, then the demon-pacts. You _should_ be ashamed!-you’ve slighted our honored guest.”

“The Dalish are too quick to bend the knee,” Flemeth chastised, casting a glance at the Keeper. “This is the work of something far more strange.”

“I hate to interrupt but,” Hawke began, taking a step forward. He held out his palms in a placating gesture. “What was the purpose of the amulet and ritual?”

Flemeth frowned, her lips in a tight line. “No one is certain of fate. By all rights, it might as well be chance. I can never decide.” She ceased her pacing, and Carver thought he was going to pass out from locking his knees in fright as she moved away from him. “It’s a wandering path that sometimes converges, sometimes diverges. It is best to prepare for the worst. The amulet contained a piece of myself, a tiny piece. Enough to call me back from the void in the event my plans lead to my daughter killing me to save herself.”

“Wait,” Hawke’s brows rose. “So the stories of you resurrecting yourself through your daughters are true?”

Flemeth’s smile was sly, and she continued. “Were Morrigan’s fears justified, you mean?” she laughed. “I raised her well to be wary of myths and legends. There’s always a seed of truth in even the tallest of tales. The amulet did play a part in those tales.”

“Well,” Hawke tried to soak in the revelation. “You’re here, that must mean you survived.”

She smiled fondly. “The Hero of Ferelden declared a blood oath. I had saved their life at Ostagar, and so they claimed the favour paid by staying their hand. I came here to collect the piece personally, but I could feel the paths shift the moment lightning struck the mountain. So that begs the question: who might this be?”

Marethari’s face was dark with rage as she stood over Merrill. She yanked her ear, hissing. “Know this, _harellan_ . You will be known by no kin for endangering the people with this catastrophe. I will destroy the Eluvian personally and strike your name from our lips. You had _one task_ , and you endangered us all.”

Flemeth’s distaste was palatable. “Stay your hand,” she commanded. “It is my right to judge, and I have found her innocent. Frankly, it is insulting that you think me so powerless. There are methods to determine if this stranger is a threat to the world.”

Marethari paled. “You mean to invade her mind?” she gasped. “Even though she may be a criminal, you could be overtaken-”

“Again, you doubt me.” Flemeth glowered. “I find your faith in me offensively fickle.”

The Keeper had enough grace to bow her head and calm her ire, thoroughly shamed.

“Set the girl by the fire.” the Witch commanded. “I will need to see her face.”

Carver gave a questioning look, but did as he was told. He did _not_ want to face her wrath. Gingerly, he set his precious cargo down. Even though she was a mess and still covered in debris, the clansmen around them gasped at the sight of her. She was glorious, a vision of marble and gold clad in fine, richly coloured leathers and silks.

Even Flemeth herself had gone eerily still for an awkward amount of time. Hawke leaned against his staff with white knuckles. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he had no doubt it was going to be a test of his morals. On one hand, he and Flemeth were basically engaged in a blood-pact of their own. It was his debt to still pay, since something had gone wrong with the ritual. On the other hand, this mysterious girl was just that; a girl. By looks alone he felt uncomfortable letting the Witch do… whatever it was--she was preparing to do. Logically, he knew looks could be deceiving; the fact that Flemeth could turn into a _dragon_ was proof enough of that.

“Should I be here?” Varric whispered on Hawke’s left. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a good guy Hawke, I can tell. But this seems a little… much.”

“Oh storyteller,” Flemeth said in a poetic, calling voice. “I delight in seeing what tales my actions inspire. But this might be the dawn of a new age, a precipice of change. Why leave when you can witness this moment with your own eyes?”

Varric shifted in his boots, but did not answer. There was not much one could say in response  to such a speech.

“A wise choice,” she smirked. “Without any further ado, let us begin.”

Aveline came to stand at Hawke’s other side, bracing both physically and mentally for whatever oddities were going to happen next. This day felt surreal; half nightmare, half legend.

As Flemeth closed her eyes and knelt before the small elf, Carver numbly sat next to Merrill. “What’s this about invading her mind?” he worried, biting his lip.

Merrill sniffed, cradling her accosted ear. “It’s a forbidden interrogation technique. Our history tells of it in passing, but it is never outright taught. That knowledge has been lost to us for good reason. Many things could go wrong if used by the wrong person. On the wrong person. But the Asha’bellanar isn’t just anyone.”

Marethari had the sense to look away from the two of them, but her held her chin high in misplaced pride.

“...you might want to look away,” Merrill warned all that were watching, wincing. Her expression was severe and haunted. “If the stories are accurate, it will not be pleasant to see.”

Flemeth raised her hands over the elf’s eyes, and tendrils of smoke rose into her fingers. Like the crash of a tidal current, raw power swept over them as the connection between their minds was forged. Even Varric, blind to the dreaming world, could feel the clash of their auras on his skin. It swept through him and beyond, reaching both far above and deep below. He didn’t have time to register that he should probably have headed Merrill’s warning. Or perhaps covered his ears.

The scream the elf made at Flemeth’s mercy was akin to a dragon’s whistling death throes, and it was only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pictured Marethari as someone who is happy to be kind and wise if you're following Traditions(tm), but will lose her shit if you don't cross your t's and dot your i's.  
> ....yes, I did get the "RIP Sabrae clan" on my playthrough. I just found it odd how accommodating she is for Flemeth's errand yet... "Oh no you're consorting with demons! Guess I'd better commit magical suicide because you're not listening to me and I know best." If she seems OOC, it's purely because of my interpretation of her as a cranky aunt who is stuck in her ways. Irritated the piss out of me. Poor Merrill.


	4. From Pain: Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which we meet what's left of Lavellan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trippy, I know.

Everything was quiet here. There was nothing. She was nothing. It wasn’t a loss of self, but a loss of attachment. There should have been fear for losing so much of herself, but the thread she followed brought about a peace the likes of which was indescribable. A dreamless sleep.

Simply drifting, but anchored to something which kept her whole.

Was this the void? Many speculated what happened after death, but their squabbles felt insignificant now that she was here.

Nothing… truly mattered anymore. And that was alright.

There was no sound. No light. No darkness. Simply That Which Was and That Which Is, but even _that_ was irrelevant now.

So when something drove into her mind with all the violence of an axe splitting wood, the serenity around her shattered like glass.

Images of a clan. The pain of getting a Vallaslin. Writing it in her journal.

_Writing it in her journal._

Writing the date of her rite of passage into adulthood into the journal.

_The date._

Her name.

Her clan.

The names of her kin.

Where the clan was that day.

_The date?_

Someone was here.

Someone else.

She wasn’t alone.

_someone was here_

The **date?**

Moving on. The chantry exploded.

When?

A world in turmoil. Mages and Templars at war.

Chantry?

The Temple of Sacred Ashes.

_Someone laughed dryly. A human temple. Why?_

A sacrifice. Danger. Red crystals and deformed flesh. A monstrocity from legend.

_Fools._

Slay the elf.

Reaching out. Have to stop this. This was wrong. Only wanted to watch. Have to help.

Get the orb.

  


_Someone halted the tide of memories._

Replayed them, like being forced to read the same thing over and over again.

The date.

The war.

The orb.

The orb?

**the foci**

_The monster._

Corypheus. Cor-iffy-shit. So much red. It sang of poison and madness.

Yes. That one.

More danger. Elevated to worship.

_No, please. I don’t follow your god. I’m Dalish_

Someone smiled in pity, she could feel it. Oh, da’len.

A river of time. Flowing. Falling past. Time travel.

A dance on a balcony. _Vhenan_. Grim and fatalistic. What kind of hero will you be?

 

_I am Solas, if there are to be introductions._

**Someone gasped a choked sob. Oh, how she missed her old friend.**

With each flash of thought, she felt more real. Someone was screaming. Was it her?

 

Twisting forests untouched by modern time. Golden warriors darting through the trees.

A choice.

She had to be the one to take the well.

Morrigan had a child to worry about.

She was already cursed to die by her own hand, what’s one more relic?

It’s for the People. For all of them.

_Oh, da’len._

Angry words under a fresco. A quiet grove. Her Vallaslin, gone.

And down, down to the depths of the earth beneath them. So far down the sky inverted.

And south to lands of snow and stopped time. A dragon, and a legacy.

Morrigan lost her child.

Her mother was Mythal.

Everything she knew was a lie.

_A lie by omission._

Her hand **hurt.** They were arguing. There was nothing they could do.

_Shit! Dammit. We save Ferelden, and they’re angry! We save Orlais, and they’re angry! We close the Breach_ **_twice_ ** _, and my own hand wants to kill me! Could one thing in this_ **_fucking_ ** _world just stay fixed?_

A mother’s embrace. Not by blood, but by title.

_I wish it could, Vhenan._

There was water on her face, falling in slow motion like the rifts in Redcliffe

_Guide me unto death._ She begged. It was over now. She thought of Wisdom and the pieces of them scattered into the Fade. Maybe someday, they would grow to be spirits themselves. Maybe she could still help people, shattered as she was.

_You still can._

Why?

 

The memory of a voice came to her. _Probably best discussed after you_ **wake up**.

Wisdom, the voice called to her.

**w.a.k.e  u.p**


	5. With Eyes Wide Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy being reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter's comments, I mentioned making a playlist for this. I'd love to share it, but it's tied to my Facebook and there's no way to hide my name. I'd have to create another account and copy over everything. And there's a lot of "everything". Eugh. Cons of having a unique name: 1, easily searched and 2, never find souvenirs. Eugh x2.

Flemeth pulled her hands away the girl slowly, and the screaming subsided to hiccuping gasps as the tendrils left her face. The strange elf convulsed on the ground, twisting in apparent pain. Light flashed under her skin like a barely contained storm. Eventually, the movements became little more than the occasional twitch. The magic within her calmed, and her chest rose with a single shuddering inhale before letting out a final scream that seemed to shake the heavens.

For a moment, there was silence that you could cut with a knife. The clan was still, waiting with baited breath. Tattooed faces peered out from behind the aravels with glowing eyes, cautious and afraid.

The strange elf’s aura spiked; it pulsed like a heartbeat. Once. Twice. It was almost like someone had shoved her heart back into her chest as the lights dimmed. Quieter, and controlled. A breath in. A softer exhale. The oppressive aura receded back into her and with it, colour returned to her cheeks. She was still pale and somewhat statuesque looking, but definitely more alive.

Whatever Flemeth did was finished, and the Witch wore a severe, pensive expression. Hawke wasn’t sure what it meant; was the elf a danger or no? The lack of communication was anxiety inducing.

Flemeth took a step back, looking to the skies for a moment before finally addressing the gathering. “Your debt has been paid tenfold, Hawke,” she said, eyes bright with an unknown emotion. “There is no immediate threat; the girl is no longer your concern. For now, I shall remain until she awakens fully. It should not be long now.”

Varric let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding onto. Well, shit. That was weirder than fiction. Even the most insane stories couldn’t compare to what he just saw. He looked over at the rest of the group, wondering how they were reacting to all of this.

In the chaos, Carver had joined with Merrill on the ground. The two of them were kneeling, slowly braving the world enough to look about just as Varric was. Merrill’s face was still a mess from the tears and dirt, but her curiosity overpowered her fear. She didn’t seem to be aware of Carver’s arm around her. His gentle expression and awe was telling. Maybe he had a thing for her?-maybe her courage inspired him.

Varric smiled at the scene, and looked up at the man standing next to him.

Hawke stood firm, but from the lines of worry etched into his brow, Varric could tell the man was troubled. Aveline, at Hawke’s other shoulder was much the same. Being two survivors of the Blight, they were no strangers to stress, grief, and loss. But this was different; being powerless to witness something completely out of their league must have been trying. It likely was calling back memories that were left unspoken; too raw to discuss even a full year later. Perhaps that was why Hawke was so eager to dive into the Deep Roads; a chance to eradicate darkspawn and get even? A death wish borne of guilt-- Varric made a mental note to keep an eye on him.

Slowly, Dalish life resumed around them. Men dressed in hunters’ garb hurried about, lifting boxes into cargo-laden aravals. The tailor turned away to resume their stitches on the sail. Marethari spoke to a few of the younger elves and they dashed off with a nod, eager to leave the scene.

The most surprising reaction was that of Flemeth. The Witch’s face was perplexing; a hidden smile in crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes but haunted by a deep sorrow. Wistful perhaps, Varric guessed. But for what? Youth? She lowered herself next to the strange girl and removed her rather intimidating clawed gauntlets. Flemeth’s bare hands were slender and leathered from age, but clean. With tenderness comparable to a mother, she fussed over the stranger, plucking bits of dirt from her hair. She ran her thumb over the girl’s cheeks, drying her tears from the painful memory spell.

The girl started to rouse, wincing at the attentions. Merrill inhaled sharply at the movement, shifting forward in Carver’s arms to get a better look. “What is she?” she dared to ask, clutching at the grass in nervous hope.

“Older than she appears, that much is certain.” Flemeth smiled, as if holding onto an amusing secret. “I would advise against treating her like a child; she has seen more of the world than most. Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Will you be taking care of her?” Hawke frowned, concerned. Even if the girl wasn’t a child, the part of him that would forever morn Bethany was thoroughly attached to the stranger. He couldn’t help but feel slightly protective of her simply because she looked so young. “We were prepared to give her housing at Kirkwall, if it came to it.”

“How generous,” Flemeth mused, pausing her affections. “Even though you have so little to give, a refugee as you are, you welcome another. A bold move, despite being naive.” She smiled, and continued as she turned back to the girl. “I am glad I judged your character correctly.”

“Are we taking her in then?” Aveline hedged, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Flemeth had yet to answer anything in a straightforward manner, and it irritated her.

“In time.” the Witch hummed. “Let us wait for her to wake before we speak further on the matter.”

Marethari cleared her throat. “A meal is being prepared,” she announced. “We welcome you to join us.”

Aveline nudged Hawke, and he remembered the original plans for the day. Had it only been an hour ago that they were on a scouting mission? “Thank you,” he placated,  “But I have things to attend to. We could rendezvous after?”

Flemeth shook her head. “No, I will guide her to Kirkwall when our business is finished.”

“What are you planning to do with her?” Merrill spoke cautiously, guarded. She didn’t want to offend the Witch, but the legends of possessing her daughters to achieve eternal youth were at the forefront of her mind.

“Nothing sinister, I give my word.” Flemeth chuckled. “She will be safe with me.”

Varric sighed and walked over to where Carver and Merrill were kneeling. He offered out his hand to the elf. “C’mon,” he bade. “Let’s get you to Kirkwall. I’ll give you a tour, if you’d like. Maybe a visit to my favourite alehouse. I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink after today’s excitement.”

She giggled breathlessly, taking the help up.

Carver followed under his own, brushing the dirt off his knees. “Guess I’m with you then, brother?”

Hawke nodded, and to Varric he said, “We’ll meet up at The Hanged Man-” he paused, laughing. “Might have a bath first, though.”

Marethari watched them with narrow eyes. “So you will not be joining us?”

“Unfortunately no, it seems.” Hawke answered. From the relief in the Keepers expression, he suspected that it wasn’t ‘unfortunate’ for her at all.

“Sounds like a good of a plan as any.” Varric supplied, shifting his crossbow on his back. He spoke not so much for the benefit of Hawke, but for the eavesdropping Keeper.  “Don’t get yourselves killed out there. I hear the roads are dangerous lately with bandits, rouges, you name it. First round at the tavern’s on me when you get back.”

The Keeper merely turned, not bothering to see the group off.

 

______

 

It was nearing nightfall. The Dalish camp was all but packed and ready to leave at first light of tomorrow’s dawn. Merrill’s Eluvian had been destroyed, following the details that Flemeth spoke of to the letter. The woman herself had not left the strange elf’s side the entire day, even going as far to refuse the meal the Keeper had offered. After a few hours, the clan had become accustomed to their presence by the fire. Bolder elves would ask questions of the enigmatic Witch of the Wilds, but they were met with distracted, vague answers.

“Will you not sleep?” a crafter, wearing the vallaslin of June came bearing blankets and simple clothing. “I bought supplies for the night if it gets colder.”

Flemeth shook her head. “Set them here for now.”

The elf bowed her head and left.

Hours passed by, and the clan eventually retreated to the aravals. Only the nightwatch warriors and hunters were awake, standing guard on the outskirts of the camp.

Well out of earshot.

The strange girl awoke in the darkness, and her eyes finally opened to the star studded sky. They were a stunning shade of golden amber that matched Flemeth’s own, nearly liquid in their intensity. An inner light shone from them, and not just the reflective quality from her Elvhen body.

“You know.” the elf said simply, turning her face away. “You saw everything. My entire life.” She made no move to sit up. Instead, she folded her hands on her lap and sighed heavily.

“Everything,” Flemeth confirmed.

“How?” the stranger’s full lips turned into a tight line. She was angry, and perhaps afraid.

The Witch’s brow rose in question. “How could this come to pass? How you came to be here?”

“Yes?” She ran her hands over her face, scowling.

Flemeth looked to the stars. “I surmise it was our shared connection to ancient magics. You had an anchor to it, and were bound to it’s Will. Such power can transcend time itself.” Her wording was odd, but the elf peaked through her fingers with a sharp cleverness that understood the wording between the lines perfectly.

“I can’t go back, and I can’t change the future.” she lamented, closing her eyes once more.

The Witch chuckled low into the firelight. It should have been menacing, but they were cut from the same cloth now. There was a shared understanding between them. “You were much more daring before you died. Nothing is inevitable.”

Bright eyes widened at words once spoken in another world. “How can I know that I will not make it worse? That I might fall to the same folleys as-”

“He took his name from his nature.” Flemeth grimaced. “A good heart, but he wished too hard to be the wisest.”

“I can’t be me again, can I?”

“Not when you look like that, no.” Flemeth agreed. “You could go to the Black Emporium, but I confess, a selfish part of me had missed seeing that face.”

“You mean to say-” the elf began, gasping.

The Witch held up her hand, instantly silencing the girl. Within moments, a young hunter with fresh tattoos came by to add more wood to the dwindling pile of kindling beside them. He was painfully unobservant, and clearly tired. A yawn broke from his face involuntarily as he mechanically went about stacking it beside them. He knelt merely an arm’s width away, completely unaware. Only when he looked up and saw that there were now _two_ people watching him did he stumble back onto his rear.

“ _Ir abelas-”_ he began, quivering at the sight of them. The strange girl sat up, waving her hand dismissively.

“There is nothing to apologise for, da’len. We were just on our way.” Flemeth spoke evenly for them both as she stood. The elf rose to her feet as well. Even though she barely made it to the Witch’s shoulders, she was a terrifying sight to behold. One shoulder was clad in armor more befitting of a battle mage than the teenager she was. Her other shoulder was bare and dainty, leaving her staff-arm free for casting. The cloth that draped over her belt added a bit of femininity, but the severe collar and sleek cut of the leather vest suited a much older woman. Her long, golden hair spilled out behind her in waves, reminding the hunter of the shem’s revered Andraste.

It was like looking at a matched set. The two moved with a casual, predatory grace that was too effortless to be simply putting on airs for an audience of one.

“Where are we going?” the girl asked, flexing the armored hand tentatively. She looked down at it with a frown.

Flemeth cast a cursory glance at the hunter before answering. “There is another artifact of significance nearby. Another clan has been entrusted with its possession.”

“...d-do,” the hunter stuttered, clearly shaken. “Does that mean that you don’t trust the Dalish anymore?”

The Witch shook her head. “It does not,” her smile was placating as she turned away from him, but it did nothing to calm the terrified boy. “It’s just needed.”

“What is it?” the girl asked, falling into step beside the living legend.

“Why,” Flemeth chuckled. “None other than The Mask of Fen’Harel.”

The girl swore darkly in a string of words that sounded like it belonged to several different languages. The hunter tried very hard not to shake in fear at the sound of the name.

“Quite.” the Witch agreed, but for different reasons entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, Lavellan's outfit is the Taken Shape set. More about that later.  
> I know a lot of authors don't reply back to their comments? It feels weird to see so many on the statistics, but literally half of them are from me. I like talking to people!-and I can't thank you guys enough for the good vibes. <3 Seriously, it means a lot to me.


	6. Shapes of Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flemeth is amused by the Inquisitor's antics, and might be developing a soft spot for our wayward elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short-ish exposition chapter while I set up the Redemption plotline! I have work for the next few days, but I wanted to keep myself motivated with this. :3

Dawn broke, and Flemeth finally stopped. She closed her eyes and moved her head as if she were listening to something in the distance. Curious, the young girl beside her strained her ears to hear anything out of the norm, but found only the wind rustling through the underbrush.

“There is a disturbance in the Veil. The wards protecting the Mask have fallen.” Flemeth stated.

“You mean someone stole it?” The girl hissed. “Could this have happened _before-_?”

The older woman shrugged. “I likely wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t seeking it out. One can never be certain that things will go according to plan. Fate is no different. The path could have changed the moment you were brought into this world.”

Frowning, the elf clenched her fist. “I didn’t ask for this. Never desired it. _All_ of it.”

“I know, _da’len_.” Flemeth placated with a worn smile.

Still wearing a thunderous expression, the elf clenched her left hand tight in its armor. “Should we intervene?”

“You have experienced knowing the future before,” Flemeth’s brow rose. “What do you think? Should we change this world as you did at Halam’Shiral?”

“You’re asking me?!” The elf stopped incredulously. Her face morphed into an outright scowl. “You’re the one who’s stuck their fingers in every major event for the past-”

Flemeth tutted, and with a flare of blue her eyes lit up in the sunlight. An echo of power threaded between them, and the elf’s jaw snapped shut. It did nothing to quell her ire, in fact, it only infuriated her more.

“I am a fly in the ointment, yes. I do stir the pot as I see fit because sometimes history needed a little shove. If your experiences as a leader have taught you anything, you would understand.”

The elf huffed, still glaring.

“Orlais would have destroyed itself in its civil war had you not intervened.” The Witch continued patiently, “Even if you had chosen a different leader, the fact stands that you were involved. You saved it from an invasion from a demon army. Is this not the same?” With a sigh, Flemeth released the girl from her thrall.

“My apologies,” the elf sighed after a pregnant moment of reflection. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m alive. I didn’t expect to have to make a decision on something like this so quickly.”

“Then speak of your worries without anger; I am not the target of your wrath.” Flemeth said with a hint of chastisement in her tone. “Many believe in the rumours of dangerous magic and a cunning tongue. I am a mystery for reason; the stories exist because I have crafted them in a manner to benefit my existence. You know more than most. But!-” she smiled with a surprising warmth. “I am still a mother. Trouble’s of the youth are no stranger to me. Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

The elf’s jaw hung open, but she remembered herself and straightened. Standing taller, she paced as she spoke. “First, how did the resurrection work?- I know being tied to the Well of Sorrows is a part of it, but I’m unsure what you meant about the anchor. Is this a permanent thing?-or will it kill me like the mark? I still feel like I  _have_ it. It's just… inactive at the moment. I think.”

“It is natural to fear death having come so close to it so many times,” Flemeth agreed, folding her arms in thought. “But this seems to be complete and stable; it is a part of you now, no longer his or mine. A miracle in this age, if people knew the truth. I hypothesize that your armor played a role in the magic as well.”

The elf’s eyes widened as she looked down at herself. “I knew it was enchanted but I don't understand what you mean.” she trailed off, unsure.

“You found it in the crossroads,” Flemeth supplied. “You are correct that it is Tevinter made, but I doubt you knew its origins when you put it on.”

The girl rolled her eyes to the heavens with a self-deprecating laugh. “Please tell me I didn’t touch _another_ thing I shouldn’t have.”

“No, merely that its conception are quite grim. You’re wearing clothing crafted with blood magic and organic material from sentient beings.”

There was a hefty pause as the elf tried not to gag. “ _Great._ As if that’s more comforting. Don’t worry, da’len; it’s just just someone’s corpse!”

Flemeth laughed outright behind her hand.

“But what does that _mean_?-other than being horrifying. I still don’t understand.”

“You were named Inquisitor for good reason,” the witch smiled, mirth still in her eyes. “In essence, It was made from flesh. You tore yourself apart. It gave you flesh back. He gave you the key and power. Merrill's ritual gave you shape and substance.”

The elf’s eyes were wide once again, looking for all the world a lost child. “Am  _I_ still alive then, in this world?”

Flemeth shrugged. “After this is done, I would suggest checking. To err on the side of caution, I would suggest using a new name or even a title, as I have. But for now, we must make haste. There is much ground to cover.”

“It would help if we were dragons.” the girl sniffed, trying in vain to overcome her shock with humor.

It seemed Flemeth gave it serious thought for a moment, and her sly smile was worrisome. “Let us start with something smaller. You already know how. Why don’t you show me what a true Emerald Knight would look like?”

Confused, the elf frowned. “I don’t have a staff, much less a spirit blade. It took ages to forge the one I had.”

“No,” the Witch chuckled as magic gathered around her. “Let us be as swift as wolves.”

The girl’s lips twisted into a thin line as the Witch changed shapes effortlessly before her. Flemeth's form as a wolf was inconspicuous; a tawny lithe alpha. Aged, but strong. Unassuming, but the intelligence in her eyes was an obvious clue.  “I’m  _not_ going to run into a Dalish camp as a magical wolf.” The elf fidgeted, locking her gaze with the wolf. 

Flemeth gave the canine equivalent of a deep sigh before speaking without words. _"No, we are not visiting the camp I bequeathed the Mask to."_

“Good," the elf sighed, "I don’t want to be chased off with torches by my own kin.”

Golden eyes kept staring at her, annoyed at how she was stalling.

“Fine!-let’s give Fen’Harel a run for his money then, shall we?”

Laughter echoed in her head as her shape changed to the same species as the Witch. Nails became claws and teeth became fangs. It was easy, too easy. Her mana felt infinite in comparison to the memory of her old self. The magic itself felt natural, like the shape of the wolf was always within her.

A yip from up the hill broke her thoughts. Flemeth was waiting, eager to continue their travels. 

The new wolf took a step. And another. Hesitation lost, she broke into a canter, easily catching up to the legendary shapeshifter.

Flemeth howled in delight before taking off due east in a blinding, but steady pace that the smaller elf could match without too much effort. The hunt for the Mask had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had waaaaay too much fun writing for Flemeth.


	7. Salt and Sileal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in a cave, Josmael, Nyree, Tallis, and Cairn get help from an unexpected source.  
> Otherwise known as Josmael is Done With This Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh boy_ I am so sorry for not updating. Had a bit of a life crisis, but we're doing alright! Chapter is shorter than I'd like but I knew I needed to at least post _something_ to get back into the saddle again. You know the drill, probably will edit it to be a bit more readable/meaty of a chapter once I sleep on it.

Josmael paused, hands covered in dirt and grime. Maybe a bit of blood from an odd cut here and there. The others were still bickering behind him, occasionally tossing looks of disdain over his way.

It _was_ his fault that the ambush went sideways, sure. But they didn’t have to be such asses about it. He was young, inexperienced. He didn’t know that the enemy would react so swiftly!-or what the signal to attack was for that matter. They never actually told him the plan, come to think of it. His fiancee Fina was right there in front of him!-But she and the mask slipped through their fingers like sand.

And now they were trapped in this damn cave.

Yes, he was training to be a Keeper one day, but most clans never saw outright combat like this. Josmael knew he was the one to blame, but the group didn’t really need to rub the salt on the wound. They could at least, you know. Help dig them out.

“Come on, elf. Do you want to see your girl again or not?” Nyree sneered. For a turncoat mercenary, he was wary of her. She was strong, fierce, and fearless. Josmael was rightly afraid of her by all accounts, but his fist still clenched as he yearned to punch the smirk off of her face.

Not that _that_ would do him any good. She was a reaver; pain only made her stronger. Huffing, he turned his anger into determination and started to dig once more. _Ignore them_ , he told himself.

But it was hard to tune out the rest of the group in such a small space. Cairn and Tallis were still whispering a heated argument about accepting the mercenary’s offer to help.

If only they would help him get them _out of this forsaken cave-_

“Hello?” came a faint voice from the other side. It was young, dainty, and female.

For a moment, his heart leapt in joy. Hope bloomed in his chest. “ _Fina_?” he whispered. “Hello?” Josmael answered in a shout, drawing the attention of the company with him.

Cairn raised his shield, drawing his sword. “Josmael, do you hear someone?”

“Yes!” he smiled. “It’s a girl!”

Tallis rolled her eyes and drew her daggers. “A girl?” she scoffed. “Remember what happened last time you shouted at a girl?-are you honestly that thick in the head?”

“Hello?! I thought I heard a voice!” the stranger shouted but it came through the rock as a muffled, distant sound. He could practically feel the tension roll off the others in waves. “Are you alright? Please, answer!” the voice continued.

Josmael’s eyes narrowed into a scowl of his own. He knew he looked laughably inadequate compared to the fierceness of his companions, but he was honestly tired of their attitudes. “Does that sound like a sarebaas to you?”

“Well, no.” Tallis huffed. “But you can never be too careful. They had a large group with them; it could be a scout.”

"There were scouts," Nyree agreed. "Don't know if you ran into them or not already, but we did have them."

“We have no idea who they are period if there’s half a mountain between us and them.” Josmael deadpanned. “I know you’re still furious with me, but would it kill you to help?-you’re stuck in here too, you know.”

Cairn opened his mouth to reply a rebuke of his own, but the ground started to move before them. It wasn’t the cataclysmic shake of the sarabaas’s destruction, no. This was like watching everything go backwards in time. Dirt and debris crawled up and up. Larger stones wiggled themselves loose and lifted into the walls once more. Daylight started to seep through with each passing wave of warm, pleasant magic. It tasted like the way a scalding bath felt on sore muscles. Within merely moments, the path was exactly the way it was before.

Cairn hissed, looking at Tallis, “Be ready; it’s an apostate,” And then shouted out to the entrance. “Show yourself.”

Josmael rolled his eyes. _Of course it was a mage, you idiot_. Nevertheless he scrambled for his forgotten staff to hold. But something of the magic felt familiar. His Keeper had showed him how to mend bridges for aravels to pass, but nothing of that speed or scale. Maybe the cave-in wasn’t as bad as he had thought? Or perhaps they were just very, very powerfu-

Once the dust had settled, a young woman with hair like sunshine and golden eyes stood before them. She couldn’t have been that much older than himself. Objectively, he knew she was beautiful but his heart still ached for Fina. He still had _eyes_ though. She was quite simply a vision of an elf. Her clothes looked too fine, too foreign, too fierce to be a Dalish. Or a flat-ear. Or even a slave. So where did she come from? Why did she help them? The high collar and luxurious leathers were well made, but clearly designed for battle. 

“Come no closer, apostate.” Cairn called.

“If that’s how you’d treat a mage who might have just saved your life, I’m betting you’re from Kirkwall, _templar.”_ the mage spat, but a sly grin crossed her features. It felt like an insult, but the way she delivered it was more that of a friendly jab.

“Who are you?” Tallis asked, pointing a dagger at the girl. “And why did you help us?”

The stranger held up her hands. It was only then that Josmael realised that she carried no staff with her. What?

“I mean no harm.” She stated, looking at each of them with a critical eye. “I’m tracking down a Dalish artifact for an acquaintance.” Her gaze landed on Josmael and he tried to ignore how his palms became slick on his staff’s grip with panic. “I assume the clan was raided?”

He gulped and took a steadying breath. “W-who is this ‘acquaintance’?” Oh, how he hated how scared he sounded. “What are your intentions with the artifact?” There, that sounded a bit more confident. Part of him was proud that he at least remembered to guard important information lest this person be a foe.

“Don't answer a question with a question. State your name.” Nyree’s brow rose, clearly wary of how deceptively young this person was.

The stranger cast her eyes skyward, as if she were annoyed with the line of questioning. However, Josmael noticed the pause clear as day. It was almost as if she were judging just what to tell them. Perhaps trying to fabricate a lie?

“Sileal.” she said after a moment. “Just call me Sileal.”

“You don’t sound too confident about that.” Tallis pushed, stepping forward. Her dagger hadn’t lowered one bit. Josmael was glad that she had caught on to the same subtle shift that he did. Then again, she was a spy of sorts. 

“I’m not,” ‘Sileal’ answered. “But it will do for the moment.”

“Yeah,” Nyree scoweld. “I don’t like that one bit. Doesn’t sound to trustworthy to me if you have to make up a name for yourself.”

“Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t kill you.” Cairn’s authoritative tone had a note of finality that rest the conflict on the edge of the blade he carried.

“I have many reasons,” Sileal laughed, throwing her head back in honest mirth. “But the primary one is that we are chasing the same goal. Stop someone from using a potentially dangerous magical artifact. That should be enough, right Templar?”

“Who sent you?” Tallis cut in, taking a step towards the smaller elf. She spoke a few quick words in Qunlat. The language was harsh and clipped, and sounded more like an insult than a demand. 

“No, the Qun did not send me here to assist you, or to spy on you. You of all people should know that names have power and meaning, so I chose one for myself. Flemeth and I were in the area when she felt the wards fall, so she sent me to investigate. For all I know, you could have kidnapped a Dalish child to lead you to the artifact. Hence my secrecy.”

Josmael bristled at being called a child. She barely looked older than him!

“Right, like I’m supposed to believe that a fairy-tale character told you to come here.” Tallis chucked and advanced on the girl. “Nevermind the fact that you can speak that Qunlat.”

Sileal waved a hand in a placating gesture. “I had a friend that spoke it,” she said simply. “And I enjoy learning.”

Tallis practically growled, still riffled by the stranger's blase attitude and cryptic answers.

Josmael stumbled as he practically leapt between them. “Wait!” he called, holding out his arms. “It might be true. Flemeth was the one that entrusted my clan with protecting the mask in the first place. If she truly was sent by Flemeth, then her assistance would be invaluable.”

Nyree shrugged, calming. “Works for me.” she said simply. “How about you, templar?-are you willing to add another mage into the mix?”

Cairn spoke through gritted teeth. “We do owe her for getting us out of this mess,” he grumbled. “But know this, _apostate_ , one toe out of line and I will smite you.”

“I doubt you have enough lyrium with you to negate my mana, but whatever helps you sleep at night.” Sileal smiled before her face fell into something more grim. “In all seriousness, I do mean to help you,” she spoke quietly. “Far too often ancient magics of Elvhen have been used for malice. I have seen it first-hand. It’s been my life work to make sure they aren’t used for evil.”

“‘Life’s work’,” Nyree echoed mockingly with a laugh. “What are you, sixteen?-twelve?”

“Older,” Sileal stated casually before stepping out of the cave’s threshold. “Come! Let’s not delay any further.”

Josmael blinked owlishly, watching her walk away from them. “Are we going to..?” he began.

Tallis huffed as she sheathed her daggers. “This seems strange. Too convenient. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take if it means finally tracking down the Sarabaas.”

“Agreed,” said Cairn. Josmael’s brows rose in surprise; the fact that the templar tolerated _him_ was a stretch, but a stranger? “The timing of her arrival is concerning. But it also fits the stories of Flemeth. When the hero is cornered, she would intervene and save them. At least, that’s what the dog-lords say about Maric during the war with Orlais. I thought it was just propaganda and legend.”

“Quite an ego there, calling yourself a ‘hero’.” Nyree smirked. “But I’ve heard the same thing. That will be a yes from me as well.”

“Josmael?” Tallis asked. “What do you think?-your clan has had dealings with Flemeth before, no?”

All eyes turned to him. “Well, yes. Decades ago, long before I was even born.” The nerves struck him again but he powered through his anxiety. It was critical that they knew what he had to offer. “I’ve always heard that Flemeth appears personally, though. Not through an envoy. Maybe she’s an apprentice?-it would explain her mission and skill. Or her clothes. She doesn’t look like other elves I’ve seen. But it’s always best to allow Flemeth to do what needs to be done; that much is consistent.”

Tallis nodded. “Best not to keep her mageling waiting, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> On the note of Player Characters:  
> I left mentions of the Hero of Ferelden ambiguous on purpose. With so many PC options for backstory, appearance, etc., I kind of wanted to keep it vague. Hawke, on the other hand, is default Garrett. I confess I made this choice because that game trailer with the Arishok duel was _amazing_. For the sake of plot, Lavellan is/was a mage, but her pre-rebirth appearance is left out for the same reasons as the Hero. As for why Mythal is blonde/pale, literally no other reason than a laugh at paintings of Andraste.


End file.
